N/VenyvA'a  a  ,  *L .  J . 

Pc^Y77 -Af  Y°lC«5  -  6  f  i  n  <L  i  -c*  €  v  ■..-T^ 


At  Sawn 

Hu  Hyiita  3J.  Heilman 


|  At  Dau)n  | 

|  A  Story  of  West  African  Mother -Love  | 

By  LYDIA  ISELY  WELLMAN 


WOMAN’S  BOARD  OF  MISSIONS  OF  THE  INTERIOR 
(Congregational) 

19  South  La  Salle  Street.  Room  1315 
Chicago 

1916 


Pounding  Meal  in  the  Ocine 


AT  DAWN 

A  Story  of  West  African  Mother  -  Love 

By  LYDIA  I.  WELLMAN 

The  stars  were  paling  in  the  sky  over  a  little 
West  African  village  when  Kanende  pushed  open 
the  door  of  the  hut  to  see  if  the  morning  were  fair. 
The  other  occupants  of  the  one  room,  father, 
mother,  her  two  little  sisters  and  Samba,  the  baby 
boy  still  slept.  Kanende  had  waited  a  long  time 
for  someone  in  the  village  to  stir,  now  she  would 
wait  no  longer.  She  knew  how  to  awaken  the  lazy 
ones!  So  she  tucked  her *  *epeka  securely  under  her 
armpits  and  shook  the  dust  out  of  her  frizzly  little 
braids  to  complete  her  toilette. 

The  fire  on  the  bare  earth  floor  was  almost  gone, 
but  Kanende  found  one  little  twinkling  coal  and, 
holding  it  carefully  in  her  palm,  she  Hew  across  the 
\epata  to  the  cookhouse.  Softly  she  opened  the  door. 
Kneeling,  she  blew  the  tiny  coal  to  a  blaze  and 
soon  had  a  bright  fire  going.  Now  they  should 
awaken!  The  big  *ocine  stood  near,  half  full  of 
corn  waiting  to  be  pounded.  Seizing  the  pounding 
stick  Kanende  raised  it  as  high  as  her  nine-year-old 
strength  would  permit,  then  she  let  it  fall  upon  the 
corn  in  the  ocine.  Again  and  again  she  raised  the 
stick,  again  and  again  she  let  it  fall. 

*  Pro.  apa'ka.  A  two-yard  piece  of  cloth  worn  by 
children  as  their  one  article  of  clothing. 

t  Pro.  apah'ta.  The  hut  enclosure,  family  door  yard. 
This  word  is  the  nearest  approach  to  ‘‘Home”  in  th^ 
Umbundu  language. 

Kiinen'de  means  little  clove. 

*  Pro.  O  che  nay.  A  mortar. 


Page 


“Ndu-ndu!  Nud-ndu!”  sang  the  pounding  stick 
and  at  the  deep-throated  challenge  the  doors  of  all 
the  brown  houses  flew  open  and  in  a  few  moments 
other  fires  were  blazing  and  pounding  sticks  were 
being  wielded  with  energy,  for  thus  does  the  African 
woman  resemble  that  virtuous  one  sung  of  so  long 
ago— 

“She  riseth  while  it  is  yet  night 
And  giveth  food  to  her  household.” 

True,  the  giving  may  be  delayed  for  some  hours, 
but  throughout  her  whole  existence,  from  the  first 
dawn  of  womanhood  to  the  last  flicker  of  it,  the 
muscle  and  wits  of  the  woman  are  bent  on  this  one 
elemental  thing  that  by  incessant  toil  must  she  bring 
forth  bread  to  the  eater. 

“You  are  not  tall  enough  to  raise  the  pounding 
stick,”  said  fNakanende  as  she  came  into  the  cook¬ 
house.  “You  may  bring  water;  the  corn  needs 
wetting.”  For  half  an  hour  the  measured  rhythm 
of  the  pounding  arose  and  fell.  Some  of  the  women 
sang  the  song  of  the  ocine  as  they  labored.  The 
stars  grew  paler  and  at  last  winked  out  altogether. 
Forest  and  field  began  to  murmur  the  hymn  of 
awakening  life  and  day  had  begun. 

For  little  Kanende,  brown,  slender,  dirty,  yet 
more  than  half  winsome  in  her  eager  childishness, 
it  was  to  be  a  great  day,  for  she  was  going  with  her 
mother  to  the  white  man’s  settlement  three  hours 
distant.  The  white  people  had  been  there  for  over 
a  year  holding  a  school  of  which  Kanende  had  heard. 
Once  the  white  man  and  woman  had  visited  the 
village  but  the  district  was  large  and  they  would 
not  come  again  until  next  season.  One  could  go 
to  them  but  Kanende’s  people  had  not  seen  fit  to 
accept  the  invitation,  at  least  the  women  had  not, 

t  Na  kanen’de.  Mother  of  Kanende. 

Illl!illllllll!lllilllllllllll!llil!lll!l 


four 


■  -  M:  '  ,  V::'  -  '  ■ 


m 

but  Kanjimbo,  Kanende’s  cousin,  had  been  at  the 

= 

settlement  one  whole  month  and  had  come  back 

== 

with  his  head  so  full  of  the  things  of  the  school 

= 

that  his  father  had  sent  him  on  a  trading  trip,  hop- 

= 

ing  he  would  forget.  Books  for  boys  and  writing 

S 

for  girls!  Nonsense! 

H 

So’  this  would  be  Kanende’s  first  visit.  Her 

= 

mother  was  taking  a  big  basket  of  meal  which  she 

3 

would  exchange  for  cloth  and  Kanende  would  carry 

= 

a  smaller  basket  of  beans  for  which  she,  too,  would 

■ 

get  cloth.  She  smiled  at  the  happy  possibility  as 

s 

she  helped  her  mother  spread  out  the  freshly  pounded 

g 

meal  on  wide  grass  trays.  The  sun  would  ripen 

= 

= 

the  meal  and  in  the  evening  her  mother  would  stir 

g 

a  part  of  it  into  a  stiff  sticky  mush  and  they  would 

a 

all  eat. 

g 

In  the  meantime  little  Samba  had  awakened 

3 

and  Kanende  went  to  him.  She  placed  the  fat 

= 

little  boy  astride  her  hips  and,  drawing  a  cloth  over 

3 

him,  she  tied  the  corners  across  her  own  spare  front 

3 

after  the  manner  of  women.  His  fat  little  person 

a 

was  against  hers,  his  soft  hand  beat  a  tattoo  on  her 

g 

shoulders,  he  gurgled  and  cooed  as  any  healthy  baby 

= 

would  do.  There  was  no  finer  child. 

1 

Nakanende  rolled  and  pushed  the  bed  mats  aside, 

g 

then  she  drew  from  the  cook-house  fire  a  large  man- 

1= 

dioc  root  which  had  been  roasting  there.  A  goodly 

= 

portion  was  sent  to  her  husband,  who  was  talking 

■ 

with  the  men  in  the  *onjango.  Each  of  the  little 

a 

girls  had  a  piece,  too,  and  the  choice  bits  were  re- 

g 

served  for  Samba  with  some  cold  mush,  which  she 

3 

= 

forced  down  his  throat.  The  seven  months’  old 

n 

baby  resented  this  process,  his  stomach  was  full  of 

n 

that  which  Nature  had  provided  for  such  as  he,  but 

3 

his  mother  laughed  at  his  struggles  and  the  other 

3 

*Onjan'g°-  Sitting  room  of  men. 

== 

Page  five 


Page  six 


Women  Carrying  Food. 


women  came  to  see  and  to  offer  encouragement  in 
the  unequal  contest. 

“Give  him  plenty  of  mush  and  beans,”  said  one 
old  woman.  “I  bore  five  children  and  I  fed  them 
all.  They  died  in  childhood,  two  of  them  before 
their  teeth  were  through.  If  I  had  fed  them  more 
mush  and  beans  they  might  not  have  gone  from 
me,”  and  she  shook  her  head  gloomily. 

“Samba  is  always  well,”  began  Nakanende 
proudly,  then  she  checked  herself,  for  the  air  was 
full  of  spirits  who  envied  her  the  child.  She  had 
had  a  charm  put  on  his  wrist  when  he  was  but  a 
few  days  old.  It  was  a  little  flat  blue  bead,  ugly, 
but  it  had  done  its  work  well.  She  intended  to 
buy  another  charm  with  the  cloth  she  would  get 
for  the  meal  sold  today. 

But  the  morning  work  was  done  and  why  should 
women  stand  about  while  the  fields  waited?  Soon 
a  long  line  of  them  with  baskets,  hoes  and  babies, 
followed  by  a  motley  line  of  little  girls,  were  off 
for  the  day’s  digging.  Four  or  five  women  were 
going  with  Nakanende.  It  was  a  morning  for  gay 
chatter.  Kanende,  at  the  tail  of  the  procession, 
listened  to  their  talk,  of  twins  born  in  the  next  vil¬ 
lage,  of  the  making  of  beer  pots,  of  old  Samasele’s 
illness,  of  the  coming  rains.  The  women  moved 
with  easy,  even  steps,  each  with  her  basket  of  meal 
on  her  head.  Nakanende  had  a  double  load,  for 
she  carried  Samba. 

At  the  settlement  Nakanende  unloosed  the  baby 
from  her  back  and  nursed  him.  Soon  the  white 
woman  came  out  and  greeted  them  pleasantly.  She 
brought  a  little  stool  for  each  and  made  them  sit. 
She  bought  all  their  meal  and  beans.  She  begged 
to  be  allowed  to  hold  Samba  and  sang  him  a  song 
about  a  baby’s  toes  which  made  the  women  laugh 
aloud. 

Illllllllllllllllllilllllllllllllllillllllllllllll 


Page  seven 


“Is  it  permitted  to  see  the  inside  of  the  house?” 
they  asked.  The  white  woman  led  the  way.  The 
house  was  small,  but  full  of.  surprises.  Where 
could  food  be  found  to  fill  so  many  plates?  Was 
that  a  bed,  really,  and  white  blankets?  And  mats 
on  the  floor  and  a  mysterious  little  box  on  a  shelf 
that  said  “Tick-tick,  tick-tick” ;  the  women  almost 
ran  away  when  they  heard  it,  but  the  white  woman 
reassured  them  and,  sitting  down  to  a  sort  of  table, 
she  brought  forth  such  magical  music  with  her 
fingers  that  they  fairly  thrilled  with  the  sweetness 
and  longing  of  it,  and  when  she  sang  in  their  own 
tongue  in  time  to  the  music  they  were  motionless 
with  wonder. 

“It  is  a  song  of  our  school,”  she  explained.  “A 
song  of  a  wonderful  Friend  who  loves  each  of  us. 
He  told  us  to  come  and  help  you.  He  is  your 
Friend,  too.  He  keeps  me  all  the  days  and  I  never 
lack  any  good  thing.  He  will  keep  you,  too,  if  you 
take  Him  for  your  Friend.” 

“Never  fear  and  never  lack  any  good  thing.” 
Those  were  the  words  that  Kanende  carried  away 
with  her.  Warm  and  tired  as  they  were  when 
they  reached  the  epatn  they  must  go  to  the  fields  for 
a  little  digging  and  for  firewood.  Samba  cried 
and  Nakanende  laid  him  in  the  shade  of  a  tree  on 
some  leaves.  The  little  sisters  stood  by  to  watch 
that  too  many  flies  did  not  crawl  into  his  mouth 
and  Kanende  helped  her  mother  with  the  digging. 
The  sun  was  low  when  they  returned  to  the  village, 
then  there  was  the  fire  to  be  made  and  the  mush  to 
be  stirred.  The  mush  was  served  in  little  baskets 
with  beans  in  clay  saucers.  It  was  the  one  full 
meal  of  the  day.  The  men  and  boys  ate  in  the 
onjango  and  the  women  and  girls  in  the  epata. 
They  ate  with  their  fingers,  brushing  the  crumbs 
from  their  lips  with  the  backs  of  their  hands.  Even 

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Page  nine 


the  tiniest  baby  had  to  be  fed  and  the  fingers  that 
had  been  digging  all  day,  still  unwashed,  pushed 
the  mush  and  beans  into  the  little  mouths.  Then 
evening  came  and  it  was  dark  in  the  African  vil¬ 
lage.  At  full  moon  there  would  be  a  great  dance, 
but  now  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  unroll  the 
bed  mats  in  the  smoke  begrimed,  unventilated  huts 
and  go  to  sleep. 

In  the  night  Kanende  was  awakened  by  her 
mother’s  voice.  “Samba’s  head  is  hot,”  she  said. 
By  the  light  of  the  fire  they  looked  at  his  face. 
He  seemed  as  well  as  usual,  dimpled  and  sleepy, 
but  the  next  morning  he  was  indeed  sick.  Naka- 
nende  sat  with  him  in  the  hut  and  could  not  speak 
when  the  women  came  to  comfort  her.  The  child 
groaned  and  breathed  heavily.  The  women  ven¬ 
tured  some  remedies,  but  his  head  grew  hotter  and 
the  paroxysms  of  pain  more  frequent.  At  noon  the 
witch  doctor  came. 

“We  will  divine  at  once,”  he  ordered.  Speedily 
the  crowd  gathered  in  the  hut  and  around  it. 
Kanende  sat  where  she  could  hear  every  breath  the 
baby  drew.  Sickness  made  fear  and  she  was  terri¬ 
fied  for  her  brother.  The  witch  doctor  had  smeared 
his  face  with  white  clay  and  loaded  his  person  with 
charms,  skulls  of  small  animals,  teeth  and  bits  of 
skin.  Surely  the  evil  spirits  would  fear  him. 

Slowly  and  monotonously  the  chant  of  the  diviner 
arose.  After  the  chant  he  blew  sacred  ashes  over 
the  child  and  its  mother.  Then  he  bathed  his 
hands  in  a  little  clay  pot  filled  with  water  which 
he  had  brought  into  the  hut.  Intently  the  black 
faces  watched  him,  breathlessly  they  hung  on  every 
movement.  With  dripping  hands  he  took  the  child 
upon  his  lap.  “I  seek  that  which  has  brought  ill¬ 
ness  to  him,”  he  said,  passing  his  hands  firmly  over 
the  naked  little  body.  Again  and  again  he  moved 


li  ' l' mi . . . v  a 

|  them  search ingly  over  the  little  form.  The  child,  1 
|  soothed  by  the  touch  of  the  cool  water,  lay  quiet.  §j 
1  Suddenly  the  witch  doctor  started.  With  apparent  B 
g  effort  he  withdraw  his  hands  from  the  object  of  ( 
|  h(§  Search.  “1  have  it,”  he  cried,  and  there  in  | 

m  his  palm  lay  a  bit  of  glass,  no  larger  than  a  thumb  ■ 
jj  hail,  but  pointed  and  hard  and  glistening.  “By  1 
H  his  side  this  entered  at  the  will  of  the  spirits.  I  jj 
jj  have  removed  the  cause.  Take  your  child  and  1 
1  nourish  him.” 

The  people  who  watched  did  not  know  that  the  M 
B  diviner  had  secreted  the  bit  of  glass  in  the  water  M 
|  and  at  the  proper  moment  had  brought  it  out  be-  §| 
B  tween  his  fingers.  To  them  it  was  a  wonder  and  J 
|j  with  a  gaSp  of  relief  Nakanende  clasped  her  baby  ■ 
ij  tO  her  breast,  but  he  did  not  respond  to  her  caresses.  B 
H  1  he  chat  began  again,  the  air  was  close  and  jj 
(j  mysterious.  Those  who  waited  crowded  the  door,  jj 
jj  Samba  lay  panting  for  breath  and  not  until  late  B 
|§  in  the  afternoon  did  the  women  withdraw  for  the  | 
B  mush  stirring  and  even  the  witch  doctor,  wearied  B 
m  by  his  own  frenzy,  left  the  hut  for  his  evening  g 
jj  mSah 

The  next  day  Samba  was  no  better.  He  lay  with  g 
g  eyes  half  closed  moaning  feebly.  In  the  afternoon  jj 
jj  there  was  a  second  divination.  The  witch  doctor  jg 
jj  gashed  the  little  body  in  many  places  with  a  sharp  gj 
I  knife. 

Another  night  of  sleepless  anxiety.  How  different  g 
jj  was  the  dawn  from  that  day  when  Kanende  awak-  g 
H  ened  the  village!  Her  father  was  worn  and  hag-  g 
jj  gard,  her  mother  speechless.  Samba  seemed  to  be  B 
jj  Samba  no  longer.  Suddenly  she  recalled  what  the  g 
m  white  woman  had  said  about  never  being  afraid  B 
B  and  never  lacking  anything.  Would  this  woman,  g 
1  who  knew  no  fear,  help  them  against  the  evil  spirits?  | 
M  Timidly  she  put  the  question  to  her  mother. 

■  v;  :  ,  PS 


Page  eleven 


Page  twelve 


Women  Making  Beer. 


Nakanende  was  a  woman  of  judgment  and  she 

-V- 

turned  the  question  over.  She  had  incurred  the 

■ 

suspicion  of  her  relatives  by  allowing  the  child  to 

1 

become  sick.  A  heavy  fee  must  be  paid  for  the 

M 

divination.  If  Samba  died  she  would  suffer  a  severe 

H 

HI 

penalty.  The  witch  doctor  was  doing  no  good.  The 

n 

= 

white  people  had  evident  power  and  wisdom,  but 

= 

= 

if  she  went  to  them  the  villagers  would  be  furious. 

■ 

M 

Yet  she  would  go  and  through  the  white  woman 

= 

■ 

seek  the  great  Friend  who  supplied  every  lack. 

m 

n 

With  a  word  to  her  husband  she  raised  the  child 

== 

in  her  arms  and  left  the  hut.  The  women,  busy 

= 

in  their  cook  houses,  did  not  see  her,  as  followed 

1 

by  her  husband  and  Kanende  she  left  the  village. 

M 

Then  they  rushed  after  her  and  strove  to  dissuade 

n 

her  from  her  purpose.  The  witch  doctor  pro¬ 

nounced  a  doom  upon  her,  but  the  weight  of  that 

=E 

little  body  grown  so  limp  and  inert  nerved  her 

== 

mother-heart  and  closing  her  ears  to  the  words  of 

vituperation  and  putting  aside  the  restraining  hands 

n 

she  took  the  path  through  the  forest  in  the  early 

§§ 

dawn. 

= 

Pleasant  faces  greeted  Nakanende  and  gentle 

1 

voices  welcomed  her  to  the  mission  house.  Tender 

■ 

■ 

hands  took  the  sick  child  from  her  arms.  For  the 

M 

first  time  Samba  had  a  real  bath  while  the  mission¬ 

= 

ary  drew  from  the  mother’s  lips  the  story  of  his  ill¬ 

■ 

ness.  Quietly  she  explained  that  it  was  undoubt¬ 

1 

edly  due  to  unwise  feeding  and  exposure  to  the 

B 

sun.  Indeed  he  was  a  very  sick  child,  but  she 

■ 

would  ask  the  great  Friend  to  heal  him,  and  sitting 

1| 

in  her  chair  with  the  baby  on  her  lap,  she  spoke 

■ 

to  One  who  could  not  be  seen,  but  who  plainly 

== 

was  listening.  How  different  was  this  from  the 

H 

chant  of  the  diviner.  The  peace  and  calmness  of 

= 

the  mission  house  reassured  Nakanende.  The  mis¬ 

= 

sionary  unfolded  proper  methods  in  caring  for  chil- 

Page  thirteen 


(  dren.  All  day  she  employed  remedies  which  would 
m  bring  healing  and  at  evening  Samba  seemed  more 
|  natural.  A  clean  outer  room  was  provided  for 
jj  Nakanende  where  she  and  Kanende  might  sleep 
B  and  through  the  night  the  missionary  and  the 

■  father  kept  watch  beside  the  bed  where  they  had 
a  laid  Samba,  for  Nakanende  was  exhausted.  In  the 
|  early  morning  her  husband  called  her. 

“Come  and  look  at  the  child,”  he  said.  Naka- 
M  nende  sprang  to  her  feet.  What  was  this?  Had 
B  she  slept  through  the  night  instead  of  watching? 
j|  What  might  they  have  done  to  her  child?  Like  a 
[  flash  she  was  beside  him  and  bending  over  him. 
jj  He  slept,  but  the  fever  and  the  strained  look  had 
a  gone.  As  though  he  felt  her  presence  he  opened 
j|  his  eyes  and  stretched  out  his  hands. 

Once  more  dawn  was  purpling  the  African  sky, 
M  glorious  symbol  of  the  morning  that  was  to  arise 
S  in  Nakanende’s  benighted  soul  and  in  the  souls  of 
J  her  people.  Even  now  its  first  beams  were  strug- 
M  gling  to  enter  there  and  the  shadows  wavered  as 

■  with  a  prayer  of  gratitude  which  she  did  not  know 
|  was  a  prayer  she  folded  her  baby  in  her  arms. 


Page  fourteen 


